Fresh Pickled
by Murphy AT
Summary: "His eyes were as green as a fresh pickled toad." Why on earth did Ginny find toad-eyes attractive? Was it just a poor choice of words, a simple lack of tact? Possible. But not likely. This is the story of a wise toad, the color green, and the seventh of seven. First of the 'Fresh Pickled' oneshots. Harry/Ginny.


A/N: Hello, my fellow human beans! Have finally had one of those infernal plot bunnies everyone goes on about. I've never understood quite how Ginny came to find pickled toads attractive enough to describe her hero's eyes. This is one way it could have happened. Enjoy!

(By the by, I own no part of the Harry Potter franchise.)

x

_His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,_

_His hair as dark as a blackboard,_

_I wish he was mine, he's really divine,_

_The hero who conquered the Dark Lord._

x

"Here now, Gin-Gin, you want to help us out, don't you?"

Ginny had known something was terribly awry. She had known, even as a puny six-year-old, that if ever the twins exhibited signs of brotherly gentleness, they were to be jumped upon and promptly bitten.

She had _known_ this, but there was a vast difference between knowing something and paying the price for biting your brothers' ears and fingers and other unsavory extremities. Ginny cursed her reluctant jaws, in between great gulping breaths of air and loud, shivering sniffles.

She'd run blindly out of the house, and flopped in a dispirited pile on the cool, dewy grass next to the garden pond. She vaguely hoped the gnomes wouldn't notice her, and tried to look as leaf-like as possible. _I am a leaf. I am a shivering leaf,_ she broadcast despairingly.

She rubbed her eyes, hiccupping desolately._ Leaves don't have tears. Leaves don't have brothers who tease and pull their hair because leaves don't have hair either. Leaves have lots of leaf-friends and they can go all around the world because they have wind-friends too—_

_**Croak**_.

Ginny-the-leaf started, and found herself looking into the large, bulbous eyes of the most beautiful verdant green toad she had ever seen.

He—for she could see it was a he, from the regal way his throat undulated—was about the size of her palm, and had a constellation of warts across his back, like the glowing eyes of a thousand seers.

They pierced her to the core, those eyes, gently shining with wisdom beyond her imagining.

The toad blinked tenderly at her, with knowing eyes, and Ginny felt that she was somehow being chastised and comforted all at once, being wrapped in the blanket of the universe as the toad watched, throat wobbling —_in, out, in, out_— in the calm, rolling way of the garden pond itself.

_**Croak.**_

The toad tilted his head, canted his eyes, and Ginny-the-leaf settled further into the grass, head on her hands, the better to observe the toad. It blinked again, this time very deliberately, as if weighing her worth on a scale. She blinked back, just as slowly, and found acceptance in the quiet shine of his webbed fingers.

_You know. You understand._

The toad crooned softly, the echo seeming almost musical, and looked at her with eyes ancient and depthless as the ocean.

x

Ginny visited the Toad often, at first to simply observe, and then eventually to converse. Ron was a better brother than most, and she enjoyed his simple humour, but the Toad was her confidante.

She told the Toad of her family, of her nightmares, her hopes. She told the Toad everything, and he accepted it and answered, in his own pulsating way.

It was the Toad that convinced her, with the insistent glisten of his warts in the evening light and one amused eye twinkle, that if she wanted to fly that badly, she should very well do something about it.

And every morning before dawn, as Ginny snuck out to practice flying in the hopes that this time, she would not fall as spectacularly, she would hear the encouraging croak of the Toad echoing from the pond, and she would not feel quite so alone.

x

With seven children, a brace of gnomes, and a horde of peckish chickens, it wasn't often that Molly had time to worry, so she made up for it in intensity.

And this morning, as she absentmindedly buttered a large stack of toast, Molly was intensely worried about little Ginny.

She was the only girl, just ten years old, and such a small thing that she often got shunted to the side in the chaos. Molly knew she was perfectly capable of reasserting herself, and that she could, and often did, screech with the best of them.

But Molly felt that the effort of doing so must wear on her, and hoped that Ron was enough of an ally to keep her from retreating into a fierce bout of depression that would have her spiraling into the depths of despair.

She had been spending more and more time out of the house—more importantly, out of the kitchen, which Molly felt could never end well.

x

It wasn't until the next day that Molly truly had cause to panic.

"Ginny, dear, why don't you wash up and you can help Mummy with breakfast, hmm?"

Ginny let out a very long breath which could have been taken as an impudent sigh (if Molly didn't know better).

"Yes, Mum."

(But of course, Molly knew better.)

It was a part of her new plan, to keep Ginny properly occupied with household things, so misery would never have the chance to descend on her like so many black crows of antiquity.

It reminded her of something her mother used to say— _"Give a girl a cookbook, and she becomes a woman. Give a woman a spatula, and she becomes a mother."_

This had never made much sense to Molly, until the day she discovered that the manifold attractions of a spatula extended far beyond the kitchen and into the frightened obedience of six otherwise uncontrollable sons.

"Mum?"

Molly started, and returned her attention to both her daughter and the task of wiggling her wand—and by extension, the bacon. "Yes, dear?"

Ginny stared at the bacon. It sizzled hopefully, its fat curling in silent invitation. "Why can't I play Quidditch with the boys?"

A sigh. "Oh, Gin-Gin…"

Her head snapped up, eyes flashing and voice dreadfully earnest. "There's no reason I couldn't try! You could put cushioning charms on the ground if you wanted, and they'd all be watching out for me, you know they would. I could be really good! What if I try, and I don't fall at all the first time, or the second time, then would you let me play because really, if I don't fall the first time, I'm not likely to fall at _all_—"

A head popped out from the stairwell. "What's all this then?"

A second head followed. "What's our Gin-Gin on about now?"

Ginny glared at the new arrivals, looking as if she were wishing rather viciously that the doorway doubled as a guillotine, before redoubling her efforts on her mother. "I could be really good, there's no reason Ron should play and not me, and we're only a year apart. I really, _really_ want to play, Mum, please let me, please?"

Fred and George had decided it might be fun to aid Ginny in her quest, and so began dancing the circumference of the kitchen in long, twirling leaps, chanting "Broom me, baby" repeatedly to the tune of "Hippogriff Harry Harpooned My Heart" (a one-hit wonder by Celestina Warbeck's lesser known great-aunt).

Molly was in a dilemma. Her daughter was looking up at her with large, hopeful eyes, and it was clear she very much wanted to join her brothers in the madness of that ridiculous sport.

It wasn't safe, not nearly safe enough for her Ginevra, but…hadn't she just been trying to ensure that despair avoided Ginny with the same alacrity with which Ron fled Aunt Muriel's lips? By the way she'd been poking the eggs, Molly had to admit —with an inner wince— that cooking did not seem to incur any sort of rapt joy in Ginny.

The way she was looking now…it looked as if there was nothing that would thrill the girl more than Quidditch. Molly sighed heavily, and tried to squash the panic that was rising like bile in her throat. First things first. "Fred! George! Stop twirling and do something useful. Butter the toast."

"Ah, but Mumsy, we really, _really_ like twirling! We could be really good! You can even catch me if I fall, if you just let me _dance_!"

Fred swooned dramatically, and George caught him, pretending to sob. "Here lies Fred Weasley, Tubbington Twirler. He died doing what he loved."

Ginny growled at them, but paused to watch Molly for her reaction. She pursed her lips imperiously and pointed at the toast before turning back to Ginny and speaking cajolingly. "It's far too dangerous, dearest. Don't you think you'd like gardening a bit more? It can be quite adventurous. Just ask Mr. Lovegood. Wasn't he saying the other day how he'd almost been eaten by a plant once? Why don't we till up a little plot near the orchard, just for you. Would you like that?"

Ginny was no gummy-mouthed infant, to be diverted by some shiny bauble. "No. I don't want to _garden_, Mum, that's probably what turned Mr. Lovegood batty in the first place! I want to play, I want to fly. Please can I play?"

Molly was silent.

Fred and George had abandoned the toast in favor of higher pursuits. Namely, Fred was doing a standup impression of Xenophilius Lovegood—eyes crossed, he babbled haltingly about Gernumbli tracks and staggered drunkenly into various pieces of furniture.

George lie in wait, lurking in the twilight world of the pantry by the stairs, waving his arms about in what was apparently supposed to be a plant-like fashion, gnashing his teeth savagely. As Fred drew ever nearer his fate, his tentative murmurs rose to a fevered pitch— "GERNUMBLI BLOOD TONIGHT!"

George shifted into a plant-crouch and performed an excellent plant-leap, pouncing on top of his unfortunate victim, who hit back rather too hard to be in on the joke. "GEORGE! What the _hell_? Geroff!"

"LANGUAGE, Ron—"

"Terribly sorry, brother dear—"

"Part of a little game, you see—"

"Well it wasn't a very _fun_ game—"

"—don't know where you learned—"

"—seems you smell rather a lot like Fred—"

"—compliment of the highest order—"

"—spare me—"

"—will think you've been raised by trolls—"

"CAN I PLAY QUIDDITCH OR NOT?"

x

Dusk found Ginny at the side of the pond. The Toad was croaking tunefully, his warty constellation quivering with contentment. Ginny sighed. "It worked, you know. I can play with my brothers now."

_**Croak.**_

"I suppose that means I can stop falling asleep in the marmalade dish, which should be a rather nice change."

The Toad blinked amusedly at her, and she grinned back.

Ginny was aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware, that life appeared to be looking up.

x

A week before term started for everyone—everyone except Ginny, of course—Mrs. Weasley took her brood to Diagon Alley to get their school things.

Once there, they scattered immediately—Percy to Flourish & Blotts, Fred and George to Gambol and Japes (muttering something rather suspicious about dungbombs, which Molly pointedly ignored), Molly to the Gringott's vault, and Arthur with the "little ones"—both Ginny and Ron winced at the term—to get all of Ron's things.

Ginny watched everything carefully, tracking their route in her mind, determined to have the experience for herself next year. She saw with wide eyes the stalls of eclectic vendors selling questionable merchandise—or at least, Ginny had a great amount of questions about them, and had to be hauled fiercely away from a table decked with what appeared to be sugared doxy wings ("The venom gives it a kick, see?").

By the time they had pulled Ron's nose from the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies, Ginny's head was full of a whirlwind of colour and sound, a delightful menagerie of whistles and snaps and pops, with the cheery chatter of wizarding children, knots of housewitches in their robes of modest technicolor, and shoppers determined to buy those items on their list and _only_ those items ("I'll jinx you, Truman, _stop_ asking—").

She was towed into Slugs and Jiggers Apothecary in a daze of wonder. As Ron and Mr. Weasley considered his school list—separating the things they could find at home or in Lovegood's garden from those they absolutely _had_ to buy—Ginny skirted the edge of the shop, examining the shelves absently. She reached the very back of the Apothecary—

And stopped.

There, among the other jars of unsavory substances, was a jar filled to the brim with vinegar—and within it, a pickled toad. A verdant green pickled toad.

Ginny breathed out very slowly and examined it closely. It—he, she thought mournfully—looked just the same as he had a few days ago, when she had last seen him. There was the gently sloped feet, there, the warty constellation, and there—his eyes caught hers, still open. Still knowing. Webbed feet waving in a reassuring litany of movements, glyphs of comfort in the opalescent liquid, the Toad's eyes were wide and deep with wisdom, looking beyond the veil of time.

Ginny grabbed the jar, muttered an apology to its occupant for handling it so roughly, and rushed to the front, where her mother had rejoined them. "Mum. Dad. It's an emergency. We _have_ to buy this toad."

Molly looked at her daughter with slight regret. She'd always known, somehow, that Ginny would turn out a little mad. Too much time on a broom does that to a girl.

Arthur simply looked perplexed. "Ginny…I know you, eh, care about animals and such—but, I'm sure the toad had a, er, long and happy life…and had lots of little tadpoles…and died a peaceful death, in his sleep…"

Ginny shook her head, frustrated. "No. He didn't. I _know_ he didn't. But that doesn't matter—we have to buy him, before someone else—"

Molly smoothed her hair. "Ginny. Dear. We would, you know we would…but we can't. It isn't necessary. We can't even get Ron his own wand. You're just going to have to say goodbye to the little toad, alright?"

Ginny stood, hugging the jar close, and nodded once, curtly. She turned on her heel, and walked slowly to the back of the shop as if trudging to the maudlin beat of a funeral march. She stopped before the shelf, back rigid, and set the jar down carefully. She tapped the glass, once, blinking deliberately at the unseeing Toad, before nodding and walking back to her bemused parents.

It was the first time Ginny felt poor.

x

It was 1 September. Hence, chaos ensued.

"Alright, everyone, in the car! We're going to be late—George! Give Ron back his panties at once!"

"MUM! They're boxers! _Merlin_, if you say that at the station I'll never have any friends! They'll all think I'm a fairy!"

"Don't use that term, dear, it's rude. Everyone packed? Everyone in?"

"Hang on—where's Ginny?"

"Forget Ginny, where's Scabbers?"

"GINNY! We're going to leave you!"

"Mum, have you seen an owl?"

"Oh, there you are, dear—what owl?"

Murmurs. _Rude_ murmurs, if you asked Ginny. But no one ever did.

"Since when has she had an owl?"

"Since she's gone nutters, that's when—"

"I haven't! It's not _my_ owl, don't be stupid—"

"He'll probably be here when we get back, Ginny, now get in the car."

And they, like a large and ungainly gypsy caravan, were off.

x

They arrived at King's Cross at a quarter till eleven o'clock, a bundle of elbows and red hair and nervous excitement.

The group pushed their way through the crowd, Ginny clinging to Molly's hand so as to avoid getting lost in the stream of people that seemed determinedly oblivious to the strange flock of redheads with their trunks and rats and owls—Ginny wondered if they looked so very strange. Everyone else certainly looked odd, in clothes that didn't flow very nicely, and no hats or animals or wands—how utterly abnormal—

"Stay close, dears—it's completely packed with Muggles, of course. Shouldn't be surprised, but then every time, I get here and I am."

Ginny looked longingly at the beautiful brick wall before her. In just one year—_one year_—it would be she who would be disappearing through it, like Ron, like all her brothers before her. She cursed herself for the wholly stupid idea of being the last born Weasley—the least she could have managed is second to last.

"Now what's the platform number?"

Ginny looked at her mother incredulously. _As if she doesn't know…pish posh…the tease…_ Even so, Ginny found her voice erupting excitedly from her. "Nine and three-quarters!"

She threw the brick wall a look of wistful yearning. "Mum, can't I go…"

For a moment, it was as if the world had opened to her. Of course she could go! She was only a year too young. Surely her vast maturity and excellent brain would commend her enough to make up the difference—

"You're not old enough, Ginny, now be quiet. All right, Percy, you go first."

_Well!_ huffed Ginny indignantly. She sniffed imperiously and ignored them all. She refused to miss them. They weren't even gone yet. Her eye was caught, finally, by the earnest green eyes of a boy Ron's age, speaking shyly to her mother. It seemed he didn't know where the platform was. _Don't be daft. It's right there!_

She took a closer look, curious in spite of herself. Ridiculously messy black hair just long enough to brush the top of his round glasses, baggy Muggle clothing that looked curiously authentic (_A Muggleborn, then_), the boy looked almost painfully small, with green—

She paused. _Verdant_ green eyes. Earnest, hopeful, verdant green eyes.

_Oh dear._

x

She laughed at the horror-struck expression on her mother's face at the idea of the twins, blowing up a toilet (and, well, the idea of blowing up a toilet seemed rather funny as well).

"—that black-haired boy who was near us in the station? Know who he is?"

Ginny focused razor sharp attention on Fred and George. _Who?_

"Who?"

"_Harry Potter!"_

She felt inexplicably lost. Green-eyed boy? Verdant green-eyed boy was _Harry Potter_? The Boy Who Lived? The hero of the Wizarding World? "Oh, Mum, can I go on the train and see him, Mum, oh please…"

_How strange to have met someone you've heard about and idolized your whole life!_

"You've already seen him, Ginny, and the poor boy isn't something you goggle at in a zoo."

_Oh. I suppose…_

She shook herself as the whistle sounded, bewildered. Her brothers were boarding the train—_now, hang on! I haven't even ignored you properly! _

Fred and George leaned out the window to kiss Mum goodbye—but Ginny was too short! Blast it, she couldn't reach them at all! Tears prickled behind her eyes and Ginny gave in to a very childish urge to cry.

"Don't, Ginny, we'll send you loads of owls."

_What would I do with a flock of owls?_ Ginny thought blearily.

"We'll send you a Hogwarts toilet seat."

Ginny laughed wetly, and tried to keep up as the train pulled out, drawing her brothers farther and farther away—_for a whole year_—she tried not to think of that, but it seemed her brain was rather enamored with the torment.

Only when the image of a pair of clear, bright eyes flashed in her mind's eye could she quiet herself.

Ginny fell asleep that night, curiously calm, and dreamed in shades of green.

x

A/N: I'm considering keeping this a oneshot, but I might do a chapter per line of the poem, to make it into a bit of a progression piece. Let me know what you think.

Review, my lovies, and I give you melty goodness!

~Murph


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